


my sister taught me how to walk

by TricksterNag1to



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Another Episode
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Manipulation, POV First Person, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterNag1to/pseuds/TricksterNag1to
Summary: monaka learned a lot in her life.





	my sister taught me how to walk

Manipulation was a simple web to weave, when you had small yet, spider like fingers. Pitiful children are the most powerful, after all. Four different colored strings could easily be tied and twisted if you had enough wit to properly make yourself a nice bracelet of slaves.

 

Blackmailing was just a simple. Everyone had a secret and it took just a bit of trust to wean it out of them. 

 

If it was a bad parent, an evil six letter word that could leave someone sobbing in your lap, the mention of a substance or a few comforting words; every person had a breaking point, a boiling point, somewhere that made them crack into a million tiny pieces.

 

Cookies, cakes, comfort, love, hatred, validation. They were just pawns in the game of chess that was making someone yours, their entire being depending on you for the sense of being valid.

 

Sure, people can attempt to escape and eventually come to terms with  _ yes, this happened _ and  _ yes, I can  _ **_finally_ ** _ move on _ . Alas, there’s no fun in knowing that the person who did hurt you is finally gone, unless they stick to your heels like a shadow.

 

**my sister taught me how to walk.**

 

**in  the end**

 

**my rival taught me how to run.**

 

She was unlike anyone I’d ever seen, with a disgusting, unimaginable amount of hope and determination, laughing as she found stinkbugs and spoke to birds and destroyed the beautiful place, the paradise I finally created for myself and everyone I had saved.

 

I was their god, an upcoming magnum opus, if I insisted they should die for my cause they would nod their heads in agreement and ask when and how they would, knowing my word is god and insisting our trust was mutual despite how easily they were hurt, how much they wanted that shoulder to cry on.

 

For some reason, I always was good at bringing people together. The misfits, the broken, the upset, the popular. Anyone and everyone insisted that I had some sort of magical power to bring people together.

 

**oh, oh no, i never did.**

 

That’s how I walked. The truth  was all an act, insisting my trauma was so closely stitched to my heart was a joke, after hearing my friends- no. My minion’s, not even- my underlings stories about being abused and starved and beaten, I slowly began to fabricate my own.

 

Words were my sidewalk, and I’d skip with how I spoke. A lie here, a couple of twirls of words there, I was dancing through the spoken word, despite my nonexistent disability.

 

After all, originality is never original in itself. My sister, the wonderful person she was, sent from up above taught me everything I knew. How to walk, by holding her hands and following her footsteps with my own nervous, childish steps as she lead the way until her very demise.

 

I was broken, she insisted, and that’s alright. She would put me, and everyone back together. My sister was a princess who turned the ugliest frogs into princes, the fairy godmother that murdered Cinderella’s parents. Our savior, the only true angel in a world of demons.

 

**if only she saw me now.**

 

We both knew I wasn’t broken. I never would be. I was so high on a pedestal to her, her right-hand man. My true sister, the one who she would hand out unlimited affection.

 

Currant-red hair turned to a bright, poppy strawberry blonde overnight, her analyst skills constantly running like a clock in the back of her head. Formulating, creating notes, revising. I could never do that. I, on the other hand had my fingers and string, and the ability to weave.

 

She could help me walk, but I could weave a blanket of words to get anyone to do as I said. People said I looked like a doll as a child, glassy eyes and dainty limbs, a cold temperature constantly and slow, unnerving movements. They were all intentional, just like the roof.

 

**the roof was always an amazing experience.**

 

Five children, one bound to a wheelchair had planned to jump off until she stopped us, putting a hand on my shoulder. My plans, like puzzle pieces slowly fell into place, their sides rubbing together like a cricket’s.

 

My sister stopped us, fake tears running down her cheeks. Insisting we all should be able to stay alive, and we could finally hurt those who hurt us. Adults were demons after all, and that we should play a game to hunt them down one by one.

 

Later, she said her famous words; we were broken, and that’s okay. She's, our sister and our savior, would put us back together before she finally left. As we walked back, hands linked in a trusting chain, I noticed her eyes were on me during her speech, and I knew, truthfully that I was her favorite.

 

**shortly after walking, i learned how to run.**

 

Annoying girl, rolling girl, determined girl, a slowpoke in regards to brains and brawn. What most people would call charming, I would would call distressing, annoying and an idiot.

 

Sadly, when things fell from the roof, she ran, and I remained still.


End file.
